


I'll Keep You Safe in Glass Houses

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Memories, carnival adventures, quiet talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is smiling, soft and faint, like Stiles has actually said something good. He’s all slender grace and easy confidence when he sways into Stiles’ space and curls his hand against the back of Stiles’ head. And Stiles realizes a little too late what Derek intends to do until he is already leaning in and kissing him soundly on the mouth. It’s just warm pressure and dry brush of lips but it’s enough to make Stiles freeze where he is standing, right in the middle of everyone, and stare a little dazedly at the blurred lights spinning around them when Derek pulls away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Keep You Safe in Glass Houses

Stiles likes it when they are fitted against one another. Be it standing at the market counter, waiting for their food to be rung up, or when Stiles is hunched over his computer in the middle of the living room floor and Derek comes up behind him and presses himself against Stiles’ back, long legs resting on either side of Stiles’ waist, knees bent. He likes when they are laying in bed together, and Stiles is fitted up against Derek’s chest, able feel Derek’s heartbeat, against his skin, vibrating faintly through his muscles. Because Stiles cannot _hear_ like Derek can, cannot sense that Derek is alright just by listening. And so Stiles needs to feel, needs to touch, needs to be close, to hear the rhythm of Derek’s heart, the steady subtle beat of blood being pumped through the vital organ, letting Stiles know that Derek is safe, is alive.

Derek says, when Stiles gets captured in thought like this, “Where are you?” and Stiles will reply softly, “I’m right here.”

But Derek never believes him, it’s not _enough_.

“Your mind is a dangerous place,” Derek murmurs, palm pressing against Stiles’ stomach and fingers splaying outwards to capture as much of the pale naked skin that he can. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” Stiles told him once, after a particularly bad night where Derek was left laying on his back in Stiles’ bed, breathing shallowly, eyes closed as he waited for his body to _heal_. Stiles could hear the soft snap of bones, the thick crunch of muscles as tendons regrew and stretched and squirmed around cartilage. “I belong to you.”

“Scott-“ Derek had rasped, and Stiles knew what Derek was not saying.

_Your loyalties belong to Scott._

-

It’s the third day of their road trip and Derek doesn’t seem to be in any rush to leave and they both sleep in much too late. Stiles wakes to Derek’s palms on his waist and Stiles’ mouth breathing softly against Derek’s throat. The light filtering through the shades of the hotel window seems to convey that it is early midday and it’s a little too bright and obtrusive, regardless of the fact that Stiles has his face tucked comfortably away, safe against Derek’s neck.

It’s all seemingly perfect and right, but Stiles cannot push the unease that lingers in the back of his mind, because Derek still refuses to say where they are going or if there even _is_ a destination. And Stiles is starting to find the whole thing worrisome because even if Derek had just wanted to go on a week’s road trip for no reason at all, he should at least be able to say so, shouldn’t he? It’s the whole secrecy of the matter that has Stiles tied up in knots, because Derek seems so at ease with the whole thing and yet is so evasive at the same time. Stiles is left feeling like the unreasonable one, twisting his hands and chewing on the inside of his cheek like they are tangled up in something horrible. Derek is usually the one tense and bottled too tight and this whole switch of personas has left Stiles completely unnerved. He doesn’t feel right in his own skin, like hanging upside down for too long or stepping off a spinning carousel, and everything feels like it is still moving around even though you’re standing firmly on the ground. But your brain doesn’t know any better, you’re all askew and cannot seem to settle back into your skin, the train beside you is moving and you’re sitting still but it’s all too confusing; your brain can’t right itself.

But Derek just gives Stiles that half-smile of his, squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck in reassurance and goes back to reading or staring out the front window of the car.

So Stiles tries to make things work for him, tries to make his hands stop shaking and tries not to make everything so awful because for once Derek isn’t bleeding and Stiles isn’t sewing up his own skin and no one is dead or dying. He tries to do things as he normally would, like read a magazine or surf the internet or spout out baseless theories on why so many supernatural creatures end up wandering into the boring corners of Beacon Hills.

-

They’re lounging in the hotel room when Stiles comes across it. The curtains from the window have been pushed back and sunlight is streaming lazily across the bed where Stiles is spread out on his stomach, the town’s local Herald open in front of him. He’s drumming his fingers idly against bed sheets, propped up on his elbows as he thumbs through the black and white pages.

 “Hmm.” The noise slides idly from Stiles’ throat, vibrating against the back of his lips as he pauses on a page of interest.

“Hm?” Derek echoes, brows lifting although he keeps his gaze to the newspaper set across his lap. He is sitting in the spare desk chair, legs propped on the mattress that Stiles is currently spread out on. His feet are pressed against Stiles’ hip like it’s that comfortable to just be touching and Stiles likes how easy the contact is, to simply touch without intent.

He’s still thinking about this as the next set of words trail from his lips without purpose.

“There’s a carnival going on in the next town… And oh hey, it’s open tonight.”

He stops suddenly, his brain catching up with his mouth and Derek seems to notice the exact moment this occurs because his lips set together firmly.

 “ _No_.”

Stiles lifts his head, grinning because  _oh yes_ , Derek has definitely lost this battle. They are totally going to do this whole dating thing and Stiles is pretty sure that going to carnivals fits that cliché.  So to hell with Super Secret Roadtrips – Stiles is going to _enjoy_ this one.

“We’re going.”

“Stiles-“

“I’ve been spending the last three days getting thoroughly acquainted with the interior of your car, which is quite fascinating and attractive to be sure, but  _fuck yes_ , we are  _going_  to this, Derek.”

Derek lets out a very slow, very deliberate sigh through his nose, as if he is cursing his existence and probably just about every experience that has led him up to this point. He might also be cursing Stiles’ existence but Stiles partially doubts that because Stiles is pretty sure, if it’s any consolation by the sounds that Derek’s been making, that he’s quite possibly brilliant at giving head. So, yeah. They’re going.

“Have you actually ever been to a carnival?”

Derek is giving that downward shake of his head and he stops mid-action and glowers at Stiles beneath his brow.

“Why, since I was raised by wolves?”

Stiles nods. Because that never gets old, as much as Derek insists to the contrary.

“Yes, Stiles, I have.” Derek replies, folding the newspaper in short determined movements. “I actually had a childhood.”

“Hm,” Stiles muses, completely entertained at seeing Derek so disgruntled by the simple mention of a carnival. “I bet it was a brilliant one at that. All werewolf fairy tales and ghost stories and oh wow, full moons must have been awesome at your house with a bunch of werewolf children rampant all over the place.”

“We weren’t all werewolves,” Derek mutters quietly.

And Stiles feels a little guilty at that, he does. He tries to make it a point not to bring up the mention of Derek’s family, unless it is Derek who actively brings up the topic, which is rare to say the least – because Stiles doesn’t talk about his mom much and Derek has never pried at that unspoken wound.

“Okay,” says Stiles, pushing from his place on the bed and approaching Derek. He settles behind Derek’s seat, drapes his arms around the front of his broad chest and breathes softly against his cheek, staying still for once as he allows Derek to adjust to this encroachment into his space.

Derek’s hand lifts to curl loosely around Stiles’ wrist.

“We’re going. And I am going to eat a shit load of food, probably every stand available – the  _food_ , not the actual stand, asswipe – and there will be lots of rides involved. Which you’ll be joining me, ‘cause you’re probably the only person on the planet who cannot be fazed at being turned upside down and twisted around like a jellyfish so you will be the perfect companion for this adventure.”

“We’re going on an adventure now?” Derek remarks, voice soft, but Stiles can detect a hint of amusement in those low undertones.

“Of  _course_ ,” Stiles replies, squeezing his embrace slightly. “Everything is an adventure with me.” And because he is childish and everything is also ridiculously delightful, he rubs his face into Derek’s stubble and laughs when Derek turns his face and bites at Stiles’ jaw in retaliation.

-

It is not a very large carnival by far. Stiles spots a rollercoaster a little further behind game booths as smoke rises from busy concession stands. The shiny red rails gleam beneath the lights strung beneath the night sky, round glass bulbs that sway and shake above passerbyers. The grass is slightly damp beneath his feet and the dirt path kicks up puffs of dust around his shoes. He can hear the melody of a carousel not too far away, and it is bright and happy, a swirling array of pinks and blues – a horse and cow and grinning pig and a lion roaring behind a dog. Stiles smiles, imagining what Derek would say if he asked for a ride with him. He’s most certainly sure that Derek would push him into one of the tents and even that thought amuses Stiles. Scott would join him; they’d act like complete idiots and make a scene and probably get kicked out.

He’s quietly wondering how Derek’s body is not going into sensory overload because Stiles can barely hear his own thoughts over the crowds of people and there are so many faces and some of them are painted, garish blue and yellow with frowns and smiles, and a little girl with the face of a tiger bumps against him, mouth open wide with ringing laughter. It smells _amazing_ , all around him, but that’s probably because Stiles loves fried food and pretty much anything that could give him an early heart attack – and there are the smells of grease and hotdogs and cheese and sweet sugary confectionary everywhere. Music plays from random booths, tinkling with playful abandon and booth owners are beckoning out _, come, come win your girl a lucky prize._ They pass a House of Mirrors and a Haunted House – which is not so much a house as a large looming tent. Stiles is not so much interested, he’s seen enough ghoulish monsters on the front step of his home, and he is dating a _werewolf_ , for god’s sake. He’s pretty sure he’s seen scarier shit than whatever is cooked up behind the black gaping mouth of the tent house. Still, Derek nudges his shoulder as they walk by, lifts an inquiring brow and Stiles rolls his eyes at the mock gesture of invitation.

“Why don’t _you_ go in,” he says, “I bet you could even pitch in to add a little excitement to the scary fun.” He curls his hands, fingers crooking inward and playfully claws against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek shrugs. “I have enough excitement.”

And Stiles is surprised by the mirrored response of his own silent thoughts.

Turns out though that Derek is _not_ , in fact utterly perturbed and offended by crowds and wild children who randomly collide into his legs, and Stiles spends the better part of the first thirty-five minutes of their arrival staring at Derek as if he had actually gone into full werewolf mode.

Derek arches an inquiring brow at Stiles the first time he catches him and the second time reaches over and pushes an enormous amount of cotton candy into Stiles’ gaping mouth. By the fourth and fifth time Derek just looks genuinely irked, which Stiles thinks better suits his face. Until Derek doesn’t let the scowl fade away and then Stiles just feels awful at being such a dick about it.

Derek clears an entire round of Sniper Riffle without even trying and Stiles grins at him like an idiot. It is, admittedly, a little odd seeing a gun in Derek’s arms, even if it is a toy gun, but Derek holds it like it is something easy, making Stiles curious about the parts of Derek’s life that are still so _secret_.

“You’re awesome, you know that?” Stiles tells him, swaying into Derek’s warmth as they move to the next set of booths. He lets the back of his knuckles tease the curl of Derek’s palm.  “You could probably win every game here if you wanted to.”

Derek does not take the flattery as well as Stiles thought he would; he’s wearing that familiar constipated look, as if someone has just told him a lie and expected him to be stupid enough to believe it.

And it dawns on Stiles (a little slowly, because while Stiles is clever and may be brilliant at solving mathematical equations, he is not always the best at deciphering the body language of people around him), that Derek probably does not get praised very often. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure that _no one_ ever tells Derek how amazing he is and that settles into his brain in a way that’s somewhat depressing. Because Derek may not be good at everything but he tries, and fucks up a lot of the time but keeps trying because Derek is _that_ kind of person, the kind of person who does his best to protect others, even though he's not wanted and he messes up too often and looks horribly guilty about it after. But he keeps on coming back, like it's a wanted punishment, a _deserved_ punishment to try and fail and then ruin everybody's lives.

And Stiles thinks that that’s pretty fucked up, because Derek isn't as awful as he nearly believes himself to be. Only no one ever tells him otherwise, and Stiles knows that he's guilty of having done the same in the past, of spewing insults and complaining about Derek’s lack of everything, and that makes Stiles feel a little sick inside.

Derek has wandered over to a small booth selling bottles of colored sand. He’s not touching but staring down at them, the small glass shapes each stopped up with a thick round cork, housing their little grains of blue and green and pink, and he’s a striking contrast against the colorful array. The bottles are rounded into playful shapes, some with little potbellies, gleaming happily atop the plush red fabric. Derek is a tall hard presence of black and grey, the dark line of his brows and spiky eyelashes rimming his clear green eyes; his hands are broad and strong and could so easily crush the little vials if he wanted to. But Stiles knows that Derek wouldn’t, because Derek may be rough and course at times but he doesn’t like to _hurt_ things if he doesn’t have to.

Derek has raised his hand now, letting his fingertips trace the curve of the smallest round bottle full of red and yellow sand. A boy with a balloon in the shape of a running dog bumps against Derek’s hip but Derek doesn’t seem to notice, or at least, doesn’t seem to mind.

And Stiles is caught still standing in the middle of the path with people giving him odd looks as they walk around him and Stiles thinks that he ought to be apologizing or moving away but he can’t seem to bring that into focus. Because he is staring at the man before him who seems so intrigued by something so tiny and insignificant, looking down at it as if it is precious, a bottle housed of memories. And Stiles can’t help but think that Derek might still remember all the bad things that Stiles said about him, _to_ him, all those times when Stiles acted like it would have been perfectly okay if Derek went _away_ , as if having a world with Derek in it was the worst thing that could have happened to Stiles. Now Stiles cannot think about _not_ having Derek around without that swell of panic tightening in his chest, making his breaths come too quickly and his hands shake.

Someone knocks against the back of his shoulder and Stiles jolts back to reality with a stuttered step forward, out from his forever confused and too-loud thoughts.

Derek catches his eye, holds it for a moment before nodding, once, and they continue down the lines of stands, staying to the middle of the path, a slow and unhurried rhythm to their steps.

“I meant what I said before, about you.” Stiles says, and when Derek fixes him with a confused frown Stiles feels the grin slip back onto his lips. “You’re amazing. You're actually the kind of amazing that would make me feel pretty inferior about myself, and not just in the looks department.”

Derek shakes his head, face resuming that passive scowl. “Drop it, Stiles.”

But Stiles likes to test the boundaries of everything around him, and now that he’s got it stuck in his head that Derek doesn’t value his own self worth, Stiles is even more determined than ever. It’s stupid and silly but they’re walking through a _carnival_ and everything about this feels a little bizarre so he doesn’t care what his mouth makes him sound like.

“And I _would_ too, feel inferior and all, except you still seem to want me around and that’s pretty awesome. Because I like that - you know, the being around and all that. Even though I’m practically the exact opposite of you, what with the walking into things and verbal diarrhea.”

Derek is still eying him with that same expression but Stiles just tilts his face and holds his gaze with a sideways glance, smiling like he knows a wonderful secret that Derek is not aware of.

“What’s the opposite of wolfsbane?” Stiles asks. “Because I think I’m _that_ – the thing that doesn’t make you want to crawl out of your skin but something that’s _good_ – a type of euphoria? Something you just can’t get enough of despite obvious reasons why you shouldn’t. That’s what I am to you. Because I think you might be infatuated with me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek admonishes, although he’s smiling at the edges of that sentence.

Stiles laughs and allows his shoulder to jostle against Derek’s as they walk, feeling Derek relax and so Stiles decides to do something utterly stupid and links their fingers together. When Derek doesn’t pull away, instead tightens the hold, Stiles doesn’t say anything.

Stiles eats from every stand lining the twisting dirt paths, like it’s a personal mission, regardless of the questionable nature of a few items. He bites into something slathered in grease and it squirts out fried oil against his cheek, causing Derek to look completely horrified when Stiles tries to press his mouth into Derek’s throat immediately after. He all but shoves Stiles into a cotton candy vat and Stiles laughs because he thinks it is hilarious and Derek seems to be trying to look offended but is failing at best.

Stiles doesn’t miss the quirk at the corner of his mouth. They are rare to appear and Stiles has promised himself a long while ago that he would catalog every single one of Derek’s expressions to memory.

Derek buys the greasy offender for Stiles anyway, pays for  _everything_  that Stiles’ glee-filled eyes widen at, even though Stiles objects on more than one occasion (he is  _not_  the girl in this relationship, he can totally buy his own treats) – but Derek refuses to hear of it ( _Stiles, shut **up**_ ) and Stiles refrainsfrom arguing _._ Because Stiles imagines that Derek punishes himself over a lot of unnecessary things and just in case he’s guilt-tripping himself for being a bad date or whatever shit like that,  Stiles can give him this, if just to help ease a little of the lingering tension from between Derek’s shoulders.

“You know,” Stiles says conversationally, licking the remaining traces of ketchup from his fingertips. Derek finishes paying for his own hotdog and falls back in step with Stiles. He doesn’t seem to notice the lingering eye of the girl behind the stand; either that or he is doing a good job at pretending not to. Stiles feels slightly smug and jealous about that all the same.

Derek is waiting for him to continue, watching Stiles with that passive gaze of his and Stiles reaches over and swipes his finger at the corner of Derek’s hotdog, capturing a hunk of relish.

“I forgot to ask for that,” he explains when Derek looks amused and like he’s trying not to do something like smile or laugh.

He just shakes his head, thumbs at a bit more relish himself and pushes it into Stiles’ mouth and against his tongue, holding his head still with his fingers as Stiles gapes at him.

“Go on,” Derek murmurs, eyes cast downward on Stiles’ mouth and Stiles can feel the pressure of his fingertips against his jaw, gentle but firm and the rough pad of Derek’s thumb heavy on his tongue. It’s all Stiles can do but close his lips around it and force his throat to swallow as he sucks and scrapes his teeth across Derek’s skin, watching the way Derek briefly betrays how much this is affecting him, the red glimmer that flashes in his eyes before it’s gone and the tick in his jaw before it relaxes.

“You were saying?” Derek inquires, once he’s pulled his thumb out of Stiles’ mouth and acting nonchalant once again, as if he wasn’t just fingering Stiles’ _mouth_ a minute ago. He sucks at the corner of his thumbnail, catching the remains of condiment that Stiles’ tongue missed.

It takes a moment for Stiles’ brain to kick back into intelligence, because he’s pretty sure that he’s left a bit of his saliva on Derek’s finger.

He shakes his head quickly, scrambling to catch the edge of his last thought.

“Right,” he clears his throat, then glares a little at Derek’s self-satisfied smile, working around the hotdog and bun in his hand. Determined to claim the upper hand again, Stiles shrugs and returns to the light tone he had started with before Derek decided to make him temporarily brain dead. “As I was _saying_ ,” and he ignores how the corner of Derek’s left brow twitches at that, “I’ve never been to a carnival with my boyfriend before. You’re not half bad at this.”

He expects Derek to falter at the mention of the word, because they do not _use_ labels or titles to say what they are but Stiles wants to see how Derek will react, because it feels _safe_ now. Stiles feels like he could test it out, push a little without Derek closing off. He hopes that he’s right, or maybe he’ll even get to see Derek fluster a bit and wouldn’t _that_ be delightful.

 But instead Derek remains unfazed.

“Had a lot of experience in that field?” he asks and Stiles huffs because he _really_ doesn’t know why he keeps leading himself into these situations where obvious jabs can be made at his expense.

 “Oh my god, would you have been happier if I were able to say _yes_ to that?”

Derek just grunts in reply, his expression turning a bit sour at the inquiry.

“Whatever.” Stiles swallows down the last of his hotdog. And then, because he’s apparently overdosed on too much sugar that has obliterated his brain-to-mouth filter: “So fine, yeah, I’ve never had a boyfriend before, or an _anything_ before, so sue me. And maybe this is my first time having someone accompany to a stupid carnival in a date-like fashion and I do not have any past experiences to compare this to but –“ he sets his mouth in a scrunched line and jabs his finger at Derek’s stupidly huge shoulder. The muscle doesn’t even give and instead his finger bends a little hilariously against it. “This is still the best fucking date I’ve been on and I’m pretty sure that it’s not due to the fact that I’ve eaten more junk food in the last hour than my entire existence, it’s because I’m with _you_. It’s because you’re here with me and it’s fucking incredible. Okay? So yeah, poke fun at that one.”

Derek has stopped walking and Stiles has to stop after a moment or two when he realizes that he’s stalking off on his own. He feels utterly stupid and he’s mad at Derek for making him feel god-damn _seventeen_. He twists abruptly to plant Derek with a scowl, fully expecting Derek to look horrified or worse, amused.

Instead, Derek is smiling, soft and faint, like Stiles has actually said something good. He’s all slender grace and easy confidence when he sways into Stiles’ space and curls his hand against the back of Stiles’ head. And Stiles realizes a little too late what Derek intends to do until he is already leaning in and kissing him soundly on the mouth. It’s just warm pressure and dry brush of lips but it’s enough to make Stiles freeze where he is standing, right in the middle of _everyone_ , and stare a little dazedly at the blurred lights spinning around them when Derek pulls away.

“Okay,” Stiles says quietly, feeling the breeze move across his mouth. He licks his lips, and they taste a little like relish and sauerkraut, which he had not requested on his own hotdog, and a little of that familiar spice of _Derek_. 

There’s not much else that he can get his brain to formulate. Because kissing Derek is utterly amazing and he’s not sure that he’ll ever be able to get used to it, let alone having his hand a warm presence that stays against the nape of his neck.

“You do realize that you’re not supposed to say things like that out loud, right?” Derek asks, forehead resting against Stiles’. His eyes are doing that _thing_ , that mixture of happiness and contentment flickering amongst green and gold, causing Stiles to flush because really, sometimes his brain is an absolute douche.

But he can’t hate it too much; it’s earned him a kiss from Derek right in the middle of a freaking carnival. How often can you expect _that_ to happen.

-

They spend about another hour wandering past different tents and tiny amusement stands. Stiles drags Derek onto the shiny red rollercoaster and the ride is incredibly short and uneventful, but Stiles still throws his hands up in the air like an idiot, as the wind crashes against his laughing face and through his long fingers spread apart; and Derek rests his arm across the back of Stiles’ shoulders as if they were sitting in a love boat and not a rolling, twisting ride.

Stiles learns that he sucks at carnival games and that Derek is infuriatingly good at every game he sets his hands on, which doesn’t surprise Stiles too much - Derek’s hands are _brilliant_. It _is_ starting to make Stiles twitchy in his own skin though, his mouth dry and his cheeks splotchy. Or maybe it’s just the throb of people around him that’s making his body feel too hot beneath his clothes, despite the nighttime chill. He can’t stop looking at Derek _fingers_ , the way they curl around the long hard neck of the scratched up pins, tendons tightening firm and steady as he aims and the way his body twists with the movement when he hurls them at the stuffed toy dummies at the end of the ring. He has this odd, determined look about him and Stiles cannot help but swallow because he’s seen that look before, with Derek bent over him, hands pushing into his shoulders and hips thrusting _down_ into him.

Derek clears the target every time, and Stiles isn't even watching it happen, just stares at Derek in some sort of fascination, and Derek frowns a little at him.

“What's wrong with your face?” He sounds a bit perplexed and maybe even a little offended. But his eyes are soft and he's looking at Stiles in that quiet fond way of his, making Stiles feel awkward and sheepish.

He curls his body against Derek’s side, slides his arms beneath the leather jacket and around his waist, pressing close, despite the people around them, who probably do not care at all, or maybe they do and maybe they are looking at Derek and Stiles and wondering how someone like Derek can be with a boy who looks too young and gangly and cannot manage to find clothes that fit. Or maybe they are not thinking that at all, but Stiles hopes that they are at least wondering how he ever managed to snag someone like Derek, how he ever managed to be _wanted_ by someone as incredible as Derek because Derek deserves to be thought as someone special, to be admired.

“They're all mad with envy,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s mouth, which is so close to his own now.

“What are you saying?” Derek asks, voice quiet wonderment, soft confusion vibrating beneath the edges.

“You,” says Stiles, and he knows that doesn't make any sense. But he doesn't care, just leans in against Derek, allows him to take his weight and Derek does easily, doesn't sway or yield. “Just you,” Stiles says again, eyes lowered, so close he can count the hairs of Derek’s dark spiky eyelashes. He feels a little drugged, and he thinks the world may be slanting around them, dipping and swelling beneath his shoes.

-

Stiles rests his cheek on the leather surface of the chair as they drive back to the hotel, watching Derek’s face and the way the street lights illuminate his profile in passing rhythm, as his brain turns round and round like the carousel wheel. Derek reaches out and rests his hand on Stiles’ thigh, eyes still focused upon the road ahead although it’s empty and too late at night for there to be any other cars really and Stiles says,

“I think I love you.”

But Derek doesn’t turn to look at him. Because Stiles hasn’t really said the words aloud. They’re just tangled up on his tongue, caught between his teeth and against the roof of his mouth; he doesn’t know how to let them loose.

-

Stiles is utterly sick by the time they get back to the hotel (which, in retrospect, is not surprising, considering the amount of food he consumed and the curious quality of the majority of his choices. There had been one in particular, some odd concoction of cheese and dough and possibly some kind of meat – and Derek had looked like his sense of smell was personally being attacked by it.) That should have been a warning sign, Stiles thinks a regrettably.

Stiles goes straight into the bathroom when they arrive and spends a good half an hour trying to vomit into the toilet bowl, which Stiles would find utterly disgusting considering he has no idea what kind of disinfectant is being used by the cleaners, but he doesn’t care and just drapes his body pathetically over the cold porcelain bowl. Throwing up should be easy, what with the state of his insides, twisting and shoving against his stomach like they are trying to escape through the skin. His throat is thick with bile and it hurts a little to breathe but his body refuses to cooperate. The first dry heave leaves him gasping over the rim of the toilet, fingers shaking against the smooth white porcelain. The second and third attacks are even worse, and his eyes are watering, mouth gaping open as shocks of pain slice through his stomach. But nothing comes up, nothing at all. The fourth convulsion leaves his entire body shaking, the muscles in his neck clenched tight and he pushes himself away, slumping against the wall in defeat.

He manages to stagger out of the bathroom and doesn’t even kick off his shoes as he approaches the bed, arm wrapped around his traitorous and vile stomach. He lets out a horrible moan that is not so much an exaggeration as Derek might think and just collapses into the bed, body tightening around itself as he curls into a ball, away from Derek.

“I am dying,” Stiles moans with great conviction.

He hears Derek snort.

“You’re not dying. You have a stomach ache, which was honestly to be expected what with all the food you ate.”

Stiles would glare at Derek if he could lift his head off the sheets. He’s spinning in his own head, in the blackness behind his eyelids and his mouth is impossibly dry. It seems a little infuriating what with all the bile that is just bubbling at the back of his throat, refusing to just come out and be done with it.

“I hate you.”

“You’re reckless and this is what happens.” Derek is saying, and he sounds a little irritated about that, as if this is about more than Stiles’ inability to not consume the entire contents of a carnival.

Stiles bites down on his lip, hard, as his stomach twists and jerks, sharp stabs of pain biting through his intestines.  He grits his teeth and digs his hands into his sides, curling impossibly tighter on himself.

“Fuck you,” he gasps, “Lecture me in the morning. Like I can concentrate on a thing you’re saying now.”

Stiles half expects Derek to leave at that, because Stiles must smell terrible to Derek, sour nausea and leftover fried food and all of those terrible smells from the carnival, all mixed up and skirting off the surface of his skin. Instead Derek sighs, and it’s quieter this time and Stiles jumps when he feels the warm touch of Derek’s hand on his neck.

“Come here.”

Stiles swallows. He’s cold and shivery and his skin feels damp, like some rotted fish left out in the supermarket and his insides actually _feel_ like they are rotting.

“What?” He shivers again, but it feels better this time, with Derek’s hand there, like the poisons inside are breaking from his skin in tiny cold beads of sweat.

“Come here,” Derek’s voice is softer, his hand gentle as he presses on the nape of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles allows himself to be rolled over to where Derek is laying and he can’t be bothered to move into a better position, just smothers his face against Derek’s thigh and opens his mouth, trying to breathe in a way that will feel less like the world is tilting around him and more like reality, that he is firmly grounded against Derek with his hand against his neck.

“I’m going to be sick all over you.” Stiles croaks out, because he thinks that it is polite to warn someone about this kind of thing rather than just hurling it all over the place as an unwelcome surprise.

“No you’re not,” says Derek, “Now try to relax.”

He squeezes his fingers gently at the curve of Stiles’ neck, thumb a slow circular rhythm over the damp skin and Stiles tries to follow that movement with every ounce of his being. Derek’s skin is dry warmth against Stiles’ clammy flesh and that heat seems to sink below his fibers and spread against his bones.

Stiles can feel it - a thick syrupy heat rolling through his body, pushing through his muscles and _oh god, what is that_ , because that feels unbelievable, dense heat unraveling beneath his skin and Stiles feels limp and loose all at once.

“Oh my god,” he moans and doesn’t even try to stop himself from pushing himself half into Derek’s lap, desperate unthinking need filling his brain. “Oh that’s so good, Derek, what are you – don’t even stop.”

Derek stiffens in surprise at first, then chuckles and Stiles can feel him relax a scant second later, as Stiles pulls his arm free and throws it over Derek’s legs. His face is currently smashed in the valley between Derek’s thighs and that tiny space of air is enough for Stiles. He just inhales deeply, Derek’s musky scent filling his senses and that is all he needs to make him heady.

He wiggles his shoulders up against Derek’s hand, encouragement for more and Derek somehow gives him just that, palm grinding into the jut of bone at the back of his neck and Stiles moans shamelessly and goes boneless.

The edges of sleep are tugging around his brain, pushing into his thoughts and Stiles feels a little drunk, but without the hangover, and that is wonderful and he doesn’t even know if his stomach is still attached to his insides, everything is too light and floaty and he might be doing that, floating away from Derek’s body and so he grapples blindly, catches a fistful of denim.

“Easy,” Derek murmurs. “Right here. Sleep now, Stiles.”

“Mmpf.”

Stiles would reply with more, he would, but his tongue feels too big in his mouth and he doesn’t want anything but Derek’s heat and it doesn’t matter that his body is draped over Derek’s lap and that he _really_ should move but he can’t seem to concentrate on anything besides the push of sleep moving beneath his skin.

The air in the room is too heavy, thick like fog but warm like summer dew, and it seems to be settling on Stiles’ shoulders and pushing into his ears and everything is a gloriously muffled.

Until Derek speaks, and his tone is quiet but Stiles is still dimly aware of his surroundings and Derek’s voice, which always seems to drag him out from wherever he is falling into.

“I went to a carnival when I was younger.” Derek says and his voice sounds like it is recalling something distant, details of a memory that no longer belong to him. “My parents and Laura, and a few of the younger ones. Everyone liked it but it was- _difficult_ , for me. Everything felt too sharp – the sounds and smells and it hurt being there. No one notices you when you’re little and people kept pushing into me. My eyes flashed blue, I remember, and my mother had to take me away from everyone.” Derek’s fingers move gently up Stiles’ neck, nails skating into the soft hairs of Stiles’ hairline and Stiles twitches. “Laura liked it though, she loved the colors and the noise and everyone’s scents. She was going to be the Alpha and was already better at everything, so in control.”

His fingers scratch lightly, careful pressure in his fingertips as they dig into the sensitive underside of Stiles’ cranium.

It takes a moment for Stiles to realize that he is holding his breath waiting for Derek to continue. He lets it out in a slow shuddering exhale and it smells slightly sour as it spreads beneath his nostrils, trapped against the fabric of Derek’s jeans. Derek shifts slightly, and Stiles turns his face so that his cheek is resting against Derek’s leg. He wishes that there were a mirror in the room, because he cannot see Derek’s face in this position and he doesn’t know if it’s hurting Derek to talk like this. He wants to ask Derek to keep talking, because Derek never discusses his family and Stiles thinks that he never makes it _easy_ for Derek to feel like he can open up, what with Stiles always tripping and sputtering about.

He rubs his cheek against Derek’s thigh, hopes that it can convey _something_. And Derek’s voice sounds further away when he speaks again.

“It made me grow agitated, everything was too overwhelming to handle and I couldn’t _control_ it. The little ones began to get affected by me. When you’re – when we were pack, everyone was so closely attached to each other. We could feel each other’s emotions, not distinctly, but it was there, itching beneath my skin and I couldn’t stop the anger from building. My youngest cousin began to cry and my father said that we had to leave.”

Derek is breathing softly, Stiles can feel the rise and fall of his stomach against his shoulder but the muscles are also clenched and Stiles is too drunk on whatever Derek had pushed into his skin to formulate any words of assurance or comfort. He curls his hand around Derek’s knee and squeezes. His fingers feel boneless and detached from his body and he doesn’t think that he is applying any pressure at all. But it seems to help, a little, because Derek breathes out, like he is releasing something too heavy from his lungs and continues.

“Laura took my hand. I was breathing too hard and I couldn’t see very well but she took my hand and pulled me away from everyone.”  Derek’s hand stills, but his thumb moves idly across the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, soft friction against the damp expanse of Stiles’ skin. And then he sweeps his fingers  _out_ , sliding down Stiles’ back with heavy pressure so that Stiles grunts, but it’s good, being pushed into Derek’s thigh, holding him steady and firm. His fingers dig a little into the deep tissue beneath Stiles’ shoulder blade and Stiles groans a little at that, grateful affection vibrating against Derek’s leg.

“She took me to a Ferris wheel and pulled me inside and then everything was… gone.” His voice sounds confused for a moment, like he cannot understand the details of his own memories. “It was like we had hidden away in a glass box and I could see everyone, but the smells and sounds were no longer there. Everything was clear again, inside my head. It took us away from everyone. I wasn’t small anymore.” Derek’s voice is quieter and Stiles almost misses what he says. “She always knew what to do.”

Stiles wishes that he were a little more coherent, because this feels important now, he thinks that this is something that he would want to remember later on and he doesn’t want to forget anything about this, the memories that Derek is sharing with him, is drudging out of his own lockbox so often stowed away; the way Derek is touching him, strong and steady and  _there,_  pushing out what hurts and replacing it with something warm and soft and it feels like Derek is giving him something special, something that Stiles should _remember_ later on. When he has time to think about what it all means.

He rubs his cheek against Derek’s thigh again, the course fabric tickling his skin. The sweat from the toxins has dried across the back of his arms and he feels warm and satiated, drifting against Derek’s heady warmth and the dark undertones of his voice. He licks his lips lazily and swallows around the thickness in his throat.

Derek’s hand drags down the length of Stiles’ spine, and Stiles purrs a little at that, a muffled sound that rolls from his tongue.

Stiles is too far gone to know that he says it, already succumbing to the sleepy confines of unconsciousness, but Derek hears him, hears the words that Stiles slurs out right before he sinks under.

“Glass houses are dangerous. They’ll break you to pieces when they shatter.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to my beta, [Becky](http://winterkiss.tumblr.com) and to [Alex](http://essentiallybritish.tumblr.com/) for her consistent encouragement.  
> Can also be found on tumblr [here](http://monopolizeme.tumblr.com/post/48216278353/).
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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